Food and Drink

01/10/2019

It’s a dish I’ve prepared countless times and one that’s usually met with approval: Linguine Vongole. I used to lie to the kids and tell them the clams in it were chicken, but now they don’t eat meat so this time I have to come clean. “What are these, mom?” asks Georgia. “Clams,” I answer in as neutral a tone as I can find. “Oh,” she says, as if this is no big news, nothing troubling.

Some minutes in, Oliver, Craig, and I are nearly done our meals. Georgia, not so much. Fervent twisting of linguine on fork, but shoot, that linguine just keeps falling off. Better try again. It’s so slippery, holy moly. We urge her to stop fiddling. She begins to cry. Not for herself, but for me. “I just feel so bad for you!” she sobs. “I just can’t!” And she runs from the table. She knows how much I love to cook, how much I love it when she and O love what I cook, and she is afraid that I am horribly wounded.

This time, because I knew the clams would be a stretch, there is lentil soup as a backup. My lentil soup. Not our favourite store-bought Amy’s, which contains some secret ingredient that I, too, am addicted to. G recovers herself and sits down again in her chair. She stares down at the meal in front of her, and fairly immediately the neon thought bubble begins to flash over her head: “Not Amy’s Lentil Soup. Not Amy’s! Mom’s! Aargh! Nooooo!!” She cries, and this time not for me. The next, and only, two bites are tortuous. Life is quite difficult at this moment.

Later, as we all watch Blue Planet, I admit that I didn’t think the Vongole was all that hot this time. Craig and O protest, but a great, beaming smile lights up Georgia’s face. “You didn’t like it, mom?” “Not that much. The clams weren't great.” “Me neither!” Such relief; she is not a big meanie, and I have survived. Now we can relax and truly appreciate the giant squid eating each other, and the sharks with terrible rolling eyeballs ravaging a whale that has fallen to the bottom of the ocean. All is well.

12/27/2014

Merry Christmas! It was a wonderful one, despite your dad and I getting the brutal cold that raced through the city this December. Oliver, you came to the rescue when on Christmas Eve morning, you woke up early to go downstairs to make us these “Owl Face” fruit plates (passion fruit as noses). You were so proud, and hugged us a million times as we ate our bounty.

One of the presents you guys gave to your dad Christmas morning was homemade shaving cream with coconut and jojoba oil, shea butter, and peppermint and rosemary essence, sealed with closed-eyed kisses and wishes. That there is some pure goodness. Also it is the craftiest thing I have ever done in my whole entire life.

On Christmas Eve, GG called to say that according to NORAD tracking, Santa was well on his way. Georgia, you are not Santa’s biggest fan (you’re more a reindeer girl) so you were happy to misunderstand “tracking” as “trapping.” "Where did you trap Santa, GG?” you asked excitedly. “In a jail?”

Come to think of it, George, O's drawing a little earlier in December might have helped with your suspicion of Santa:

Just a guess.

We gave you lots of art supplies for Christmas, but I will admit that I had a vested interest in getting them into our house; I adore drawing with you. Last night I made this guy. I’m pretty proud of him, whatever he is (a ghost?). As Georgia says when she spots someone kind, "I like his face."

O, your present to Georgia was a tiny stuffie dog she had seen at Tiggywinkle’s and fallen in love with, and G, you gave O a set of Pokeman cards he had wanted for ages. You were thrilled with each other and your excellent choices.

It was a wonderful Christmas, despite our stuffy noses and the nearly total absence of snow. I think the reindeer thought so, too.

xo,

Mom.

PS: Georgia, I had a great night with you a few days before Christmas. We lay in bed doing rhymes and then you stopped, took my face in your hands, and said “Mum-mum, I love you so much I could gobble you up.” You asked me to snuggle closer, closer, closer so you could fall asleep. Mum-mum is the best name ever.

PPS: Oliver, I am so into your tree-sprouting Santa. And everything about him.

10/08/2011

I made a so-so Chinese tofu-veggie dish tonight (too salty and too sweet, ugh). With O so fixed on plain dishes these days, probably as a result of some of his pickier yet cool friends at school, I knew I had to sell it. "It's CHINESE!" I said. "Did you know there are dishes from around the world, exciting dishes you've never tried, Oliver?" "Like what, mama?" "Like our awesome Chinese tonight, but I also like Indian, Italian, and Lebanese." "I love Lemonade, too, mama, but it's not a food, it's a drink." "No, Lebanese, O. It's all garlicky and lemony." "Yes, mama. It's called Lemonade."

Thank you O. And for eating approximately four bites of my unsuccessful dish.

09/28/2011

A couple of months ago I wrote of my struggles to provide a school-approved, Oliver-approved, me-approved lunch for the young lad to take to school. Since then there have been highs and lows and things in between. The most successful efforts have involved very, very plain sandwiches on mini-buns. The biggest failures are always the ones into which I invest the most love, sweat, and tears: heavenly pasta salads or hearty soups. It's been an emotional rollercoaster, in short.

Tonight, Oliver declared that he would pack his lunchbag himself. After every couple of items, he would run downstairs and yell at Craig and Georgia: "I am packing my lunch ALL BY MYSELF!". Then he'd come up and scour the fridge for more items, employing me as no more than a wrapper and bagger. He even buttered the bread and placed the ham in the middle of his sandwich.

The contents of Oliver's first-ever do-it-himself lunch:

1 ham sandwich

1 salmon cake

2 olives

3 cherry tomatoes

1 pear

1 candy

1 yogurt

1 pkg raisins

1 snack-thing Goldfish

We all had to peruse the final product a couple of times ("Mom! Dad! It's going to be such a HEALTHY lunch!"), and then it was zipped up and put on a fridge-shelf of Oliver's choosing.

08/05/2011

Oliver and I are at it again: another night of gourmet baking (okay, maybe our third or fourth ever) and destroying the kitchen. We continue to knock it out of the park on presentation marks alone; tonight’s creation rivalled even our cupcakes in terms of colour and texture.

We found an exciting kid’s food site, Weelicious, and set our sights high—Fruit on the Bottom Tapioca—despite my vague feelings of revulsion about the gummy, fish-egg-evoking stuff. It (see image to left) looked so fresh … and that gleaming white-on-red contrast! The only thing we could imagine improving was the lack of garnish, so we popped out to our handy herb garden out front and picked whatever mint the earwigs hadn’t hit.

The mint, it turned out, was the best thing about it (that’s why you don’t see it in our image below). We tried to swallow but it kinda hurt and we worried a little about ever being able to open our mouths again. We tried to make dada eat two servings but he wouldn’t. Even Baby Sis seemed uninterested. So, we thanked good God above that dada hadn’t yet eaten all the Haagen Daz in the freezer and polished that off.

The way we see it, we don’t want to peak too soon. And no, I don't know what that squiggly orange thing amid the muck-crust is. And yeah, that's our wet laundry hanging on wood chairs. It's clean. Just wet.